


Grell bits

by little_miss_shinigami (rosexwald)



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Depression, Gen, Gender Identity, Gender Issues, Genderqueer Character, I don't know, Trans Character, i guess, umm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-27
Updated: 2014-07-27
Packaged: 2018-02-10 16:12:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2031492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosexwald/pseuds/little_miss_shinigami
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just the bits of kind-of-fanfiction I happened to write.<br/>Very very short, not really stories but... well that's exactly the issue, I don't know how to call it. Just "bits" of writing.<br/>About Grell, and from Grell's point of view, I guess.<br/>Sad and whiny because that's how I am.</p><p>This writing is just some sort of therapy thing for me, I write when I want to get some feelings and emotion out of my system. And I didn't really know what to do with those bits, so eventually I decided to publish them together as they come.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It

Warm water caresses the body, flowing gently down the curves of every muscle, and outlines of ribs visible under the pale skin. Stepping out of the shower Grell flungs long red hair over one shoulder, water drops splashing over the shower curtain, hair clinging messily to the back of the neck.

Hand raises reluctantly to clean the steamy mirror, and the person looking back from it is not Grell. Doesn’t look like Grell. Grell is a lady, graceful and beautiful, with nicely curved hips, long lashes and seductive red lips. The person looking back from the mirror is not Grell.

Water drops tickle as they’re running down the skin, Grell's eyes trace the path of one drop, it’s running down, between the legs. Grell looks up quickly, staring at the face in the mirror. _Not me_. Refuses to look down again.

Arms cross over the flat chest, fingernails digging into the skin of forearms until they're drawing blood. Lip quivers slightly, so does the person’s in the mirror. _Me after all._

Head shakes, red hair falling over the face like a curtain. Tries to get these thoughts out of the head. Her head. His head… _Its_ head?

Willam always says „it”. Grell gets nauseous at the thought of his voice saying this hateful word.

It. _It. It, it, it_ …

Not a lady. _It._


	2. Pretending

So quiet. It’s so quiet that the silence seems loud, ringing annoyingly in her ears. She opens her eyes, and stares blankly at the ceiling for a full minute, before she rolls over to her side. She curls her legs up, bending the knees. Her feet are cold, she awkwardly rubs them together under the blanket. Her red fingernails dig into the pillow when she tries to supress the tears, gathering under her eyelids.

So quiet.

It is only at night, only during this overwhelming silence, when she allows herself to be weak. No one ever sees her cry, no one ever sees how hurt she is, every day. She sulks sometimes, pouts and whines, but it’s always too melodramatic for anyone to take it seriously. She does not want anyone to think that she’s weak. No one can see.

But they make fun of her, everyday. They do not respect her, they take advantage of her, they point out her every mistake without noticing sucesses, they call her names. They call her the worst of names, the only one she cannot stand. Because she can stand being an „idiot” or „useless” or „freak”. But they also call her „it”.

Grell lets out a small, choked sob, when this word echoes in her head. She reaches out and her hand finds a soft shape of a doll. She grabs it, and without even looking at it, she quickly presses it to her chest, wrapping her hand around the doll’s head. Her fingers began to absentmindedly stroke doll’s dark hair. Grell inhales the smell of the little puppet in her arms. It smells like cotton, and for some reason, a bit like resin. She wonders how _he_ would really smell, being so close.

Would Sebastian smell as nice and calming as little Sebas-chan doll?

She thinks he would smell better, she tries to imagine how, and she gets goosebumps. She sighs and turns to the other side, leaving the doll alone at the end of a mattress. She doesn’t even want to imagine. It’s better not to know what one is losing.

He would never want to be with her, so close. Lay with her, and embrace her, stroke her hair, and her skin… never. Because Grell is „it”. No one would want _something_ like _this_. It’s… too much and not enough at once.

It feels so cold without the doll in her arms, but Grell tries not to think, and just fall asleep.

Tomorrow she will pretend once again that she is not weak.


End file.
